


Fine Lines

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Asexual Castiel, Depression, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11942760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Dean Winchester has just been released from the psychiatric ward where he's spent the majority of his twenties. He's living in Sam’s spare room, they barely know each other and are struggling to connect, and everything feels too tough. He thought all he needed to feel normal again was his family, but nothing seems to be falling into place.Then he meets Sam’s weird, cheerful housemate who treats him just like anyone else, and suddenly Dean seems to have found a reason to wake up in the mornings again.





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean falls asleep, he remembers the past.

He remembers white bedsheets and scrub pants that chafed his skin. He remembers his possessions being taken, and orderlies gripping his biceps and dragging him down a corridor as he kicked and screamed and tried to sink his teeth into the hands nearest his head. He hadn’t been thinking clearly - or thinking much at all beyond _help me, someone make them stop, make it stop._ His fingernails had been cut right down, he had been relieved of the amulet that he held so dear, and he remembers being placed in isolation for the safety of himself and the other patients. He had caused such trouble for himself that first week, and in the weeks to follow. He fought everyone around him, constantly, desperate to be left alone or to be let out or, in the dark moments, to be left to die. He doesn't remember it, but apparently he broke one nurse’s nose and bit another so badly she needed stitches. He does remember crying with shame and guilt when he found that out, though. That's a memory he'd rather not revisit.

He remembers the room, _his_ room. The room that had become his after a while, after such an extended stay. He wasn't meant to stay so long, he wasn't meant to stay long at all. It just happened that way. Things got worse, he got worse, and before he knew it four years had gone somewhere and he was still the same. It was only in the final year that he started to really improve. He had been allowed to stick a couple of personal photos to the wall if he'd wanted, but he only had one and he slept with it under his pillow. He wasn't allowed mirrors, shoelaces, nail clippers, metal cutlery or anything made of glass in his room, because they were all deemed to be items he could potentially hurt himself with. His bed was a low cot with a shallow mattress, flattened where his hips and shoulders lay, and the sheets were coarse and smelled of cheap detergent. His one pillow was pancake-thin, but he tended to hug it rather than lie with his head on it anyway, so that didn't matter. Everything was white apart from his scrub pants, which were a pale cerulean. Even his t-shirts were white. White shows blood well, someone once told him, so they'll see if you're cutting yourself. He learned quickly that they always saw.

He remembers the good weeks, sitting in his room and reading one of the few books he had been allowed, or drawing on a sheet of paper in coloured crayons. Singing quietly to himself as he sat at the window, tracing the bars with a finger and watching the trees sway in the wind. He remembers the other patients but not their faces, not really. He had struggled to bond with anyone, his own self-hatred isolating him and keeping him away from people he was afraid he might hurt. He remembered willingly taking his meds, swallowing them dry or with a glass of tepid water - five tablets: a mixture of antidepressants, sleep aids, beta blockers and something to keep him from throwing up since he wasn’t eating quite as much as he should and his stomach struggled to keep everything down. Being outside, the sun warm on his skin and the wind gentle through his hair. Smiling. Feeling like he was getting better. Wanting to go home.

And, during the really bad weeks, he remembers IV lines and feeding tubes and catheters. Two courses of ECT, only one of which he consented to. Hours spent staring at the same spot on the wall, where the crack in the plaster kinda looked like the cover of _Mothership_. He remembers how dry his lips were, but he couldn't drink. Couldn't lift his arms more than a couple inches thanks to the restraints. The feeling of an elephant sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs and restricting his breathing. Pins and needles in his fingers, an itch on his ankle, being unable to do anything about either. Feeling cold but being unable to draw up a blanket. Crying as his wrists and ankles were cuffed and he was tied down as the nurses soothed him and told him it was for his own good. The cuts on his forearm being cleaned with peroxide and left to the air to heal. Needing stitches on his bottom lip, then needing them again when he bit through it for a second time. He was sedated after that.

The freedom of being allowed back to his own room again, and the strict instructions to leave the door open at all times. The red line near the nurses station that nobody was allowed to cross. Fucking up, and picking up a razor left on the floor of the bathroom by one of the patients who they didn’t deem as high-risk as him, and being caught with it in his bedroom. Being restrained again, his veins flooded with drugs and his temples wet with salty tears, and nobody believing that he wasn’t going to hurt himself.

Remaining silent in group therapy, but finding solace in the art classes. Enjoying the social hour when the radio was turned on and some of the patients were allowed to mingle under supervision. At the start, he hadn't been allowed to join in, but when he was he would sit in the corner by the window and listen to the music with his eyes closed. Finding it easier to talk to his psychiatrist first thing in the morning, when his mind hasn’t had the chance to overanalyse his day and play tricks on him. The scratches on his arms and wrists inflicted by his own nails, his own teeth marks in the skin of his hands. His lips bitten and cut, the inside of his mouth raw from his own teeth, and sore patches on his scalp where he’d yanked out his own hair. Psychiatrists, therapists, CBT, nurses, doctors, all of them trying to help him and him getting better, then worse, then better again in an endless cycle.

His first suicide attempt. Bile and blood and mucus spewing from his lips into the shower tray as he coughed up a handful of tablets and a bottle of whiskey. Then the second attempt to take his own life, and the time he almost succeeded. The lacerations to his neck from the belt, the inability to speak for days or even drink a sip of water thanks to the pain. Then the third, in his white-washed room, his bed jammed up against the door as nurses and orderlies tried to break it down…

A knock on the door rouses him from a less-than-peaceful slumber and he pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing sleep from his eyes and blinking at the tall silhouette in the doorway. Is it morning? He only just remembers where he is, and with that realisation comes a spasm of anxiety and fear. He's not there any more, he's _here_. Home. Well, not _his_ home exactly. Sam’s place. The closest thing he has right now to a home of his own.

“Dean? I brought you some tea.” Sam steps softly into the room, approaches the bed and places a steaming cup on the nightstand. He’s awkward, twisting his hands together as he clearly tries to assess Dean’s mental state before speaking. “How are you feeling?”

“What, no coffee in this place?” He sits up, pulling the sheets around himself and clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking before reaching for the tea. God, he would kill for some caffeine. It's been so long. His throat feels sore; it's been a while since he last spoke.

“Well, yes, but your doctor said-“

“I know what she said, Sammy, I was there. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

Dean’s voice sounds hollow to his own ears, his feeble attempt to lighten the mood falling flat. He doesn't know Sam any more, so it's no surprise that his brother didn't pick up on his crappy attempt at humour. They're almost strangers to each other, and Dean hates that. Hates that the only family he has in the world he's so distant from and unfamiliar with. He knows nothing about his younger brother aside from the fact that he graduated from a fancy university and now has a good job. That's all. He supposes they might get to know each other again now, if Dean is going to be staying for a while.

“Oh. Right. I see, sorry.”

Sam stares at his hands, and Dean stares at Sam. It’s so good to see him again. He’s grown, of course, grown up and changed so much from the skinny, scrawny teen into a handsome young man, tall and well-built with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. He had changed so much in such a short time. Well, he supposes five years isn't really that short. He had been so happy to see Dean yesterday, had clearly been hoping for a joyous reunion, and had run to him with open arms but skidded to a halt when Dean flinched and curled in on himself, away from the impending embrace. Instead, they had walked together in silence to Sam’s car and the drive home had been tense and quiet, Dean staring out of the window the entire time, arms wrapped around himself and forehead resting on the glass. Outside a light snow had started to fall, blanketing everything in a cocoon of white, and he had smiled a little tracing stray flakes with a fingertip on the glass. He had felt guilty for being so withdrawn, but had lacked the mental and emotional energy for the type of conversation Sam would want to have. Sam likes to talk; Dean doesn’t. He’s gotten good at it while locked away, but he still doesn’t enjoy it, and in his first hours of freedom he certainly didn’t want to talk. He wanted to sleep in a comfortable bed, in comfortable clothes, for as long as he possibly could.

“Do you want to come through to the kitchen? I could make you some brunch, an omelette maybe? Or oatmeal, something easy on your stomach?”

“No…” Dean replaces the cup with shaky fingers, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light in the bedroom as Sam opens the blinds. “I want to stay here, I think.” He casts about, his gaze landing on a bookshelf. “I want to read.”

“You should really come through. Your doctor said-“

“I _know_ what she _said_ , Sammy. I want to read. Leave me alone for a while?” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he knows he has done when Sam flinches. Damn. Strike one, and he’s only been here for half a day. He wonders how many strikes he has before Sam comes to his senses and kicks him out. There's only so long you can put a crazy head case of a big brother up in your spare room, right? He should probably be thankful that Sam isn't sitting by his bedside and watching him twenty-four-seven. That would become tiresome.

“Uhm, alright then.” Sam retreats; the smell of coffee and bacon is wafting from the kitchen and Dean can hear someone clattering dishes about. “I’ll be through here if… if you need anything.”

And then it happens. Sam’s carefully-controlled gaze drops to Dean’s arms and he stares. Just for a second, but he stares. At the scars, the scratches, the teeth marks. The half-healed, the scarred, the ones that are reasonably fresh but weren’t deemed bad enough for him to pose a risk to himself or anyone else, more a coping mechanism that he’s slowly weaning himself off of. And now, Sam sees them. And he can’t hide his shock: his eyes widen and his lips part, and as much as he tries to conceal his reaction he can’t. Dean waits a beat then, carefully, drags the sheet up further to cover his arms and pins his brother with a look. A look that very, very clearly says, _get out. Get out, and leave me be._

And Sam goes. Moments later, Dean hears him conversing with someone in the kitchen, his housemate probably, a guy Dean knows nothing about. A guy who had been noticeably absent the evening before when Sam unlocked the door, ushered Dean in and sat him down on the couch with a glass of water and a cheese sandwich as a pre-bed snack; he had been shown quickly around the apartment and had listlessly taken in the kitchen, living area, bathroom and Sam’s bedroom. There was another door, one that remained closed, and Sam alluded to his housemate being home but the guy never showed his face. Perhaps Sam had asked him not to. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be embarrassed by his deadbeat of a brother, fresh out of the psych ward and all fucked up. Probably.

Dean doesn’t get out of bed to get a book. Instead, he lies down again and pulls the blankets close, enjoying how soft they are in comparison to the rough single sheets he’s been used to for so long. It’s been months since he was last alone in a bedroom with the door closed, yet all he wants to do is just lie here and relax. He doesn’t want to think. He needs to take his meds soon, but for now he’s still riding the high of the late dose last night so he feels light and relaxed and in control.

Long may it last.

He falls asleep again, to the muted sounds of Sam’s gentle laughter and the noise of classical music flowing through beneath the door to lull him into dreamland. 

*

Later, Dean manages to get out of bed and his first stop is the window. He's in soft plaid PJ pants belonging to Sam, so long that he has to roll the cuffs up three times, and a well-worn Stanford University t-shirt, but he wraps the blanket around his shoulders as a second layer of protection. The apartment is warm and cosy but he feels chilled as he always does. It's the meds, Dr. Bradbury had told him sagely. They mess with your body temp. It's a side-effect he doesn't much care for but it's not as bad as some of the others. When he was first taken off IV meds, allowed into his own room and given oral medication, he had been horrifically sick every time he took them. And when he wasn't throwing up, the nausea was almost unbearable. That had waned eventually, but he still sometimes fights off waves of sickness that he's pretty sure are psychosomatic, his body remembering those awful hours when he couldn't even keep down a mouthful of water and his stomach ached from spasming.

He shakes himself out of the memory; his doctor had said that would be tough initially, adjusting to living in the present and not sinking back into the safety of his mind. He had snorted at that: the memories that plague him are hardly safe. But now he gets it. It's tough to cling to reality without slipping away, and he digs his nails into his palm in an attempt to ground him.

“Try not to do that,” Dr. Bradbury had said. “Self-harm isn't a good way of pulling yourself out of it all, Dean.”

He won't do it often, he promises himself, and unclenches his hand to instead use it to push the blind up a little more and look out. Sam’s apartment is on the fifth floor with a pleasant view over a park which is probably lush and green in summer. Today, the skies are grey and heavy with snow, and all the streets, car roofs and buildings are dusted with snow. The street is slushy below him, and people walk about wrapped in coats and hats, rubbing their ands together and clutching coffee cups to their chests in an effort to keep warm. Dean smiles. _Life_. Life is carrying on below him, just within his reach, and he wants to watch. He doesn't want to go down and join in, not yet. That would seem too much and too overwhelming - the mere idea makes his heart beat just a little faster - but the knowledge that he could if he wanted to is liberating.

He loses track of quite how long he stands there, looking out, but eventually he pulls himself away and turns to the pile of clothes Sam left out for him. He tugs on the shirt but leaves the rest for later and, taking a deep breath for courage, opens the door and ventures out into the apartment. Everything is new and different and it takes him a long time to walk the five metres down the corridor to the living room where he thinks he can hear someone moving around. Someone new, a stranger. Someone he has to act normal around. He shudders out a breath. _C’mon, Winchester, you got this_.

Sam is gone, he knows that much. His brother had stuck his head in and said he had to go to the office for an hour; Dean had nodded and turned his back. That had been a while ago, but he's sure that Sam hasn't returned. He takes in the neat living room with its bookcases and silent TV, the couch looking comfy and inviting with brightly coloured pillows and a mismatched rug, then turns to the kitchen. The countertop is scattered with books and paperwork, the coffee machine is humming merrily, and a clattering sound is coming from behind the breakfast bar right beneath the sink. By process of deduction, he assumes this is Sam’s housemate and steels himself against a wave of panic. He can do this, he can meet a stranger and introduce himself. He takes a step forward, tugging the blanket a bit tighter around him (he had brought it just for a little extra protection) and clears his throat subtly, not wanting to scare the guy.

Nothing. Apparently he wasn't loud enough. He tries again and…

“Oh!” There's a _thunk_ then a dark head appears from under the sink with a hand rubbing it; the guy is grimacing in pain but attempting a welcoming smile. “I'm so sorry, I didn't hear you! I've been trying to fix… yeah.”

The guy stands up, pulling off a set of latex gloves and Dean’s blood pressure increases at the sight of them. Orderlies, nurses, all of them wearing latex gloves, holding his arms, holding him down, telling him to relax as they prepared a catheter and a cannula for the IV line…

“Would you like some lunch?” The soft, friendly voice cuts into the memory and Dean swallows the mouthful of saliva and bile that has been collecting under his tongue. “I can rustle something up; I'm no Gordon Ramsay but I don't burn _everything_ I touch…”

“I'm, um, I'm fine. I'm not hungry.” That's a lie, and Dean’s stomach betrays him by growling loudly at that exact moment. He tries to cover it up, “I'm Dean. Dean Winchester. I'm, I'm Sam’s brother.”

He's full of anxiety and residual fear from last night, that Sam is embarrassed by him and told this guy to keep away on purpose so that he wouldn't have to witness how screwed up Dean really is. He's probably going to be so mad with Dean for leaving his bedroom without permission, maybe he should go back and lie down again. Maybe he should…

“I'm Cast-iel, shit,” The guy had extended a hand to shake Dean’a and in the process had managed to knock over a small tool box, sending screws and washers everywhere. A few land on the counter top, but most of them cascade across the floor, and as a result Dean doesn't quite catch his name. “Oh, man, I'm sorry. I'm such a klutz.”

He scrambles to pick them up, evidently forgetting his intention of shaking hands for which Dean is thankful. He tugs the blanket a little closer then, deciding that standing by and watching this guy scrabble for tiny nails and screws on his hands and knees is a dick move, he kneels down to help. The guy sends him a grateful smile and, up close, Dean notices that his eyes are really, really blue. They're pretty. He realises he's staring, blushes, and finishes gathering a handful of screws.

“Is something broken?” He asks, for lack of anything else to say. His stomach grumbles again and he stops just short of shushing it.

“Yeah, the sink has been leaking but I haven't had a chance to call a plumber. Sam says to leave it and he’ll look at it but it's been days now and there's water everywhere,” The guy, Casteel, Catsteel, something like that, shrugs. “I'm no handyman but I thought I'd be able to fix it. Guess not.” He tidies the rest of the mess away and closes the tool box. “I'll just call someone. But I'll make us some lunch first, if you like?”

“That would be, um, great.” Dean can't take his eyes from the tool box. It's been months, _years_ since anyone has let him near anything like that. And he used to be good with his hands; maybe he still is. “I could… look at that for you? If you want?”

“Really?” Catsteel raises a brow. “Sure, go right ahead.”

And Dean does. He shrugs off the blanket, feeling instantly chilled and exposed but manages to shove those feelings down, grabs the toolbox and kneels right next to the aforementioned puddle of water and the cleaning equipment Catsteel had moved out of the way. Funny name, he muses as he selects a wrench. He must have misheard, but at what point can he ask the guy to clarify? Is it past the point of being good-mannered? Would the guy think him rude, idiotic, hopeless? He applies a bit more pressure to a jammed bolt and it gives willingly. Dirty water spills over his PJ pants but finally trickles to a stop and he manages to adjust the waste pipe which had slipped a little and left a gap. He's just finishing up when he hears a plate clink behind him and the smell of grilled cheese wafts through the air; he's instantly salivating.

When he straightens, the guy is staring at him in amazement - amazement which seems to turn to awe when he turns the taps on to check his handiwork and finds it holding fast.

“How did you… well. Thank you, Dean. You just saved us like fifty bucks or more. I've been at that for hours.” He shakes his head, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “This is why everyone tells me to stick to books, I guess. Here,” He slides the plate across the countertop. “You've earned it.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean wipes his hands and freezes at his own audacity. _Cas_? He's given the guy a _nickname_? Shit, that's taking liberties. Isn't it? They've only just met, and…

“You're welcome.” Cas smiles and takes a seat opposite him, picking up his own grilled cheese and taking a happy bite, almost swooning as he chews. “Damn. Either this is the best grilled cheese ever, or I'm hungrier than I thought.”

It feels undeniably weird, being treated so normally by a stranger. Dean is used to people handling him like something fragile and breakable, watching his every move and parsing their words before they speak to make sure they don't say anything that could trigger him. This guy doesn't seem to be doing anything of the sort. He's talking normally, acting normally, and doesn't appear to be concerned about Dean breaking down into a total psychotic mess in front of him. In fact, he seems pretty relaxed and at ease in Dean’s presence, which is far from familiar. Even Sam has been on edge so far. Dean studies him as he eats: he's two-to-three days unshaven, is wearing a MIT sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and his hair doesn't look like it's seen a brush yet today. He's pleasantly tanned and has forearm muscles to die for. Dean is thankful for his foresight in pulling on a flannel shirt: his own forearms are nothing short of shameful. Then, a horrifying thought strikes him: what if this guy doesn't _know?_ What if Sam has strategically withheld the fact that his older brother has been in a locked psych ward for almost half a decade and has only just been let out? And just fabricated some cock-and-bull story about him coming to stay? Yes, _shit_ , that must be it. This whole ‘everything's normal’ act isn't an act at all: the guy is clueless to the fact that he has a self-harming, previously suicidal train wreck sitting opposite him. His heart sinks at that, as his mind begins to conjure up all the possible reactions that could come from telling Cas the truth. Anger, horror, shock, and a huge dose of fear. People always seem to be fearful around Dean. Fearing that he will go off the rails and either hurt them or himself. He would never knowingly do the former, but the latter… Beneath his sleeves, the healing wounds itch and his food tastes like ash in his mouth. He needs to tell Cas, he _needs_ to…

“…everything OK?”

He snaps back to the present, cold sweat adorning his brow and slicking his palms, to find Cas giving him a gently probing stare, accompanied by a warm smile. He gestures to the grilled cheese in Dean’s hand.

“Is that alright? I can make you something else if you want, a salad or maybe some oatmeal… oh!” Cas rolls his eyes, seemingly at himself, mutters something about having an awful memory, then slides two prescription bottles over to Dean from where they had been sitting discretely in a corner. He glances briefly at the clock. “Sam left these, he told me to wake you and get you to take them around about, well, now actually.”

“He did?” Dean sets down his sandwich feeling a little dry-mouthed and shaky. He’s actually an hour past when he should have taken his next dose, but Sam wasn’t to know. _He_ should have known, should have kept better track of the time, should have…

“Yeah. Do you need some water? Here.” A perspiring glass is set in front of him then Cas takes his seat again, dragging a textbook over to him and peering at it, a clear attempt to prove he isn’t watching. Oh. Maybe Cas _does_ know a little about him. But then, why the normal behaviour?

Dean takes one of each tablet and swallows then with a gulp of beautiful, icy-cold water. The water in hospital was always tepid, lukewarm and gross. This, this is perfection. He downs the rest of the glass in one go, smiling in spite of himself. Everyone told him it would be the little things that he would appreciate the most, and so far they’re all bang on. Comfy clothes, soft sheets, cold water. Next on the list will, hopefully, be a hot shower with good water pressure and a door that actually closes. He glances down at his pants, at the stain left by the dirty sink water, and thinks he should probably head there shortly, but picks up his grilled cheese first. He’s also missed proper food _so_ much and now, as he takes another bite of the meal Cas made him and the flavour explodes over his tongue, he realises that he’s missed bread and cheese and _flavour_ so damn much. It’s a little burned, a little too much cheese, and it’s fucking amazing. The sound that leaves his lips is embarrassing, almost orgasmic, and Cas glances up with a bright smile.

“That good, huh? I bet the food was crappy where you were.”

Dean swallows, hard. He wasn’t prepared for such outright discussion of where he’s _been_. He opens his mouth, panic constricting his throat as he tries quickly to think up a response, but Cas has already gone back to his textbook and apparently wasn't expecting a reply. That’s weird, too. From what he's heard, folk love hearing all about psych wards because everyone's a nosy fucker, and he was fully prepared for (and dreading) interrogations from anyone and everyone he met. But for it to be mentioned then dropped so casually is unsettling, to say the least. He wants to say something to Cas, to ask him why the hell he’s so _cool_ with all of this, with having a bonafide psycho staying in his house, but the words won't come. Cas seems so calm and unflappable, and a question like that would surely ruffle feathers. Dean doesn't want to seem ungrateful, rude, or difficult so he stays quiet and eats in silence while Cas reads. The last few years have taught him that being quiet and not asking questions gets him places. Causing a ruckus doesn't. Well, it gets him places too but not the kind of places he wants to be - although he highly doubts Cas has restraints and syringes of barbiturates in his room ready for any impending meltdowns. He hopes not, anyway.

When he’s finished, he just sits there and stares about, taking in his surroundings until Cas seems to jerk himself out of his reverie and stands, stretching.

“Shit, sorry Dean, I totally lost myself there. I have an assignment due soon, so.” He shrugs, his shoulders popping as he reaches his arms above his head. His t-shirt lifts and a small sliver of tanned stomach peeks out; Dean averts his eyes, reddening. “Is there anything you want to do? I have to work, unfortunately, but I’ll be around if you want to chat or anything.” Cas gestures to the living room. “Or you could read, watch some television… Sam has some movies on DVD I think…”

“I’d like a shower,” Dean blurts, before he can stop himself. Cas just smiles and nods.

“OK, sure. Did Sam show you where the bathroom is? Clean towels?”

Dean nods, and as Cas clears their plates from dinner he shuffles towards the bathroom and shuts the door, feeling simultaneously relieved and anxious about being alone in a bathroom for the first time in years. He checks the door: no, no lock. He isn’t surprised. There are holes to indicate that there once was one, but it’s been removed. Likely within the last twenty-four hours, in preparation for his arrival…

He strips slowly, averting his gaze from his own damaged body, and steps beneath the spray. The sound that leaves his lips is obscene, but the water pressure combined with the heat is nothing short of heavenly. He uses a sparing amount of what he assumes is Sam’s shower gel and runs his hands down his body, enjoying the fact that he can take his time with himself. Showers back at the hospital were so rushed, and certainly weren’t private. Nurses and orderlies always stood guard and doors were never allowed to be closed. The tiled walls allowed for sounds (all manner of embarrassing sounds) to echo around, so nothing could be hidden or disguised. This, this privacy and this freedom? This is what he’s been missing. But now that he has it he isn't entirely sure what to do with it. The thought of going outside and integrating (God, he hates that word) with society is monumental and he doesn't think he can do it. His therapist said that it would be good for him to find a purpose in life again, a focus, but where will he find that? Who's going to hire someone like him, and without a job he won't earn any money. He can't stay with Sam forever, it's only a matter of time before he wears out his welcome. He remembers other returning patients talking about how hard it was for them in the real world. He just never thought it would be quite this hard. He closes his eyes and just stands under the spray, the water running down over his face and body to pool at his feet, and he’s sure a few tears fall.

Exhausted, he can do nothing after his shower but crawl back to bed, but before he closes the door he hears Sam’s low voice greeting his housemate and his note of surprise when he learns Dean was up and about.

“How was he?” Sam deliberately keeps his voice low, but through the crack in the door Dean listens intently, trying not to let a wash of anxiety take him away. He tugs the towel tighter around his hips and grips the door so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“He was fine,” Cas’ voice, low and rich and beautiful, sounds in reply. “He seemed fine, Sam. He ate, he even fixed the sink.” Cas actually sounds impressed and a warm, long-forgotten glow comes to rest in Dean’s chest. A glow that feels something like pride. A pause. Then, “I think he’ll be fine here. He’s welcome to stay as long as he wants.I don’t know what he thought of me, but I felt like we hit it off.”

Dean sleeps, and it’s dreamless for the first time in years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get married two weeks today! So here's an early wedding present from me to you: a new chapter of what is fast becoming one of my favourites to write. Special thanks to kelzebub for helping me with parts of this chapter ♥

“Dean?”

He wakes, some time later, to Sam’s hand on his shoulder gently shaking him awake. He stirs slowly, pushing away a mountain of blankets and stretching his stiff, aching muscles. Apparently his body is taking its time to adapt to sleeping in a comfortable bed.

“Dean, it’s late. You slept all day.”

“Oh.” He's dry-eyed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and his skin feels prickly all over. He needs his meds. “Sorry.”

“That's alright.” Sam retreats to a safe distance and just stands there awkwardly while Dean sits up and rubs his eyes. He's fully-clothed, thanks to feeling chilled after his shower and pulling on sweats, a t-shirt and a sweater but still, he rubs his arms self-consciously and can see Sam staring with suspiciously bright eyes. “Do you want dinner? Cas is going to cook.”

“Sure. Sounds good. I'll be out in ten.”

Dean, for a reason he can't put his finger on, cannot look Sam in the eyes but it seems like his brother is feeling the same way. There's a stilted awkwardness between them that doesn't seem to be dissipating at all, and he doesn't know how to get around it. Talking with Cas earlier had been easy enough, so why is it so impossible for him and Sam to act normally around each other? They're family, for god’s sake. Estranged, sure. But family nonetheless and that has to count for something. Right?

The door clicks shut and Dean gazes at it with a heavy heart. Family still means something to him. It means _everything_ to him. And Sam surely feels the same.

Right...?

Because at this moment in time, Sam is all he has. He has no friends, no parents, no nothing. Just Sam. And he knows he needs to get this right, knows he can't push Sam away or be so difficult to be around that he's asked to leave. Because if he is, he knows he won't make it on his own. He can't. The world is too big and too fast, and he's too small. He's been alone for too long and has been looked after in every way he can imagine, so the idea of doing it all himself is panic-inducing. His fingers tingle at the very thought. How do people do it? Get up at the right time, make themselves healthy breakfast, go to work, maintain a social life, and not lose every marble they possess along the way? Why did he find everyday life so insurmountable that he had to be removed from society and locked away? Why did he fail? He knows the trauma of his father passing was a trigger (or rather, he's been told by more than one therapist that it was a trigger), but other people have equal struggles in their lives and they don't end up locked away and medicated. What's wrong with him? Even Sammy managed to grow up normal. He supposes he got his brother's share of the crazy gene.

He rubs away a sudden wave of tears that wet his cheeks. How did he end up this way? Scared of his own shadow? He used to be the tough guy, the Alpha male, and now? Now he's nothing and nobody with no future and a past no one in their right mind would want. He laughs hollowly into the pillow at that. Well, that's just it, ain't it? He isn't in his right mind, quite clearly. That's why he has the past that he does. If he were somewhat sane, he would have had a normal youth and by now he settled down with a wife and a couple kids playing out in the yard. But instead, he's crying into the sheets in his brother’s spare room because he's a useless failure who can't get it right.

From outside, down on the streets, he hears a scream. It's a child, probably, and he's on his feet and scrambling to look before he realises what he's doing, the scream like a siren call to him. On the ward occasionally, there would be screaming from one patient or another. Sometimes from his own lips. An overhead page would occasionally sound, asking for staff members to report to the scene of the disturbance, and Dean always hated how loud it was. On the open ward, patients would stick their heads out of their doors or huddle in the common areas together, to see who was causing trouble this time, or would whisper amongst themselves as they were ushered back into their rooms. Dean stayed well back from the whispering, for he knew how it felt to be talked about and to be judged. Even pity from crazy folk felt damning. He pushes the blind up and peers out of the window, his breath frosting the glass. Yes, he was right, it's a child being dragged away from a store window by their parents, illuminated by the streetlamps and the ethereal glow of the settling snow. The child looks to be nine or ten and is screaming at the top of his lungs while the parents hold him firmly by the biceps and forearms and pull him back, and all of a sudden Dean is adrift in memory.

The first day of his hospital stay: refusing to get out of the ambulance that had taken him there, then refusing to cross the threshold of the building. Shortly after, uniformed orderlies taking him by the arms and attempting to escort him down the hall calmly as two friendly, kind-eyed nurses tried to soothe him. That calm lasted all of five seconds as he tried to pull away and make a break for the door. A wild, panicked cry had left his lips as they grabbed him, caught him, and pulled him back into the hospital. Their hands were on his biceps and his wrists, and he didn't realise until then how firm a hold that gave them. He resorted to kicking, twisting in their arms while wild screams tore from his lungs, then he was being lowered to the ground on his back, and remembers very little else until he awoke a while later, four-point restraints holding him to the bed, and tear-tracks crawling away down his temples with a nurse sitting at his side, reading and keeping a watchful eye on him. Apparently he had bitten someone then tried to claw at his own face so badly they'd had no choice but to sedate and restrain him for the safety of himself and those around him. If he'd had the energy back then, he would have been mortified. But as it was, he was too drugged to think of much at all beyond the fact that he couldn't move very far.

Dean first learned what self-harm was when he was young, before his teens had really taken hold. He didn't think anything of digging his nails into his palms so hard it hurt, or biting the inside of his lips or cheek until he drew blood. It was normal for him, just something he did. An idiosyncrasy, a bad habit. But, as bad habits often have a tendency to do, those things evolved. He started to scratch and claw at his wrists and forearms then, when his father died by his own hand with a gun in his mouth, he began to take his frustration and anger out on other parts of his body. Razor blades to his thighs, where the evidence of his activities couldn't be seen. Cigarettes stubbed out on the palms of his hands so he could worry at the healing burns until they bled and eventually scarred. Biting his lips so hard that blood dripped down his chin. The stories he had to make up to explain away the injuries, getting wilder and wilder as the years went by. But all those things paled in comparison to the furious self-hatred and rage at his own existence that pulsed through his veins the day he decided to take his own life. Sam was in high school and had friends of his own, was building a life of his own. He had a girlfriend and stayed there most nights while Dean lay alone in his shitty motel room, too unstable to go to work and too depressed to try and heal himself. After his first attempt on his life, he did try to work again but working as a mechanic in a local garage opened up a whole new world of opportunities for self-flagellation and when his boss found him sobbing after work one night with blood-slick hands and a screwdriver etching lines into his bare stomach that was it. Fired. Too much hassle. Too crazy. Too much of a failure. And, two days later, too close to death after Sam came home early from school and found him hanging from their closet door with their father’s belt around his neck.

That did it. Involuntary admission and he fought it tooth and nail until he couldn't fight anymore. Could do nothing to convince them that he wasn't in need of help because he really, really was. His diagnosis was specific and all-encompassing: major depression with suicidal tendencies and stress-induced psychotic features. Over the years, the psychosis lessened as did the catatonic spells. The suicidal ideations, however, remained as did his penchant for clawing at his own flesh whenever the mood unrelentingly gripped him. Medication helped. Therapy helped. It all _helped_ but where was the cure? Where _is_ the cure? He's starting to feel like this will be it now. A lifer on the crazy train.

He knows he should use positive, kind words to talk about himself. Therapy taught him that. The nurses with kind eyes and soft voices who tried to bond with him told him that. That calling himself crazy and mad and insane just doesn't help, it's not kind and it's not encouraging. He wouldn’t do this to anyone else, so why does he do it to himself?But try telling his brain that. He listens, his mind doesn't.

The cry of the child outside has died away now and Dean manages, somehow, to drag himself from the memory but he only makes it as far as his bed before collapsing in a trembling heap and fighting with the blankets until he's tucked safely under them again. He doesn't want to remember. He wants to forget, to move on, to live his life like everyone else. Why does his mind have to betray him this way? He curls into himself, hands clenched into fists to stop him from clawing at his skin to relieve some of the tension, and doesn't even hear Sam’s tentative knock on the door. He holds his breath, waiting, but after a moment the sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor reach his ears and he buries his face in the pillow, trying to shove down the feelings of disappointment and abandonment. He wants Sam to come check on him. He just wants _someone_ to come see him.

The tears come with no warning and he lets them fall, his fingernails cutting into his palms deep enough to draw blood. Then he shifts and digs them into the soft skin where his thumb joint meets his wrist, muffling a low cry of sadness into the sheets. What's wrong with him? _Why_ is he like this? Why can't he just get up and go out there and have dinner like a normal person? Why can't he just-

“Dean?” The voice doesn't belong to Sam. It's rich and low, and Dean turns instinctively towards it, his grip on his wrist still vice-like but without the nails now. “Are you alright?”

Cas is standing at the door which is cracked open just enough for his head and shoulders to fit through, and he's squinting in the dim light. Dean doesn't reply, doesn't trust his voice enough to speak. If he says a single word, Cas will know he's been crying. Is crying. He wipes his cheeks and temples savagely and can't contain a rather pitiful sniffle. He wipes the bloodied tips of his fingers surreptitiously on his t-shirt, unable to see whether Cas notices or not. His wrist smarts painfully.

“‘m fine. Won't be long.”

“Do you need anything?” Cas speaks softly, but there's no pity or wariness to his voice. It sounds like the type of tone he would use to anyone whom he'd just woken up.

“I need a lot of damn things, Cas.” It comes out too harshly and Dean sighs at himself, forcing his body into a sitting position and his feet to meet the floor. He fully expects the man to retreat, thinks he wants him to, but Cas doesn't move. There's a thoughtful pause before the other man speaks again.

“Can I provide any of those things?” It's a genuine question, and Dean is so thrown that he doesn't know how to respond. Cas seems to sense this and nudges the door open just a little more, reaching for the folded sweater and jeans on the chair nearby. Without a word, he crosses the room and hands them to Dean. The sweater is soft, feels like fluffy clouds under his fingers, and he pulls it close. “If you feel up to it, I'm going to make dinner. At the least, you need to take your meds. Shall I bring them to you or do you want to come through to the kitchen for a while?”

And still, there's no pity or disdain in his voice. He's just talking normally, although quite softly. Dean isn't sure how to handle this; he's more familiar with Sam’s stilted discomfort and the constant staring. Everyone on the ward had eye-contact issues. They either stared too much or wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Cas? He could look into Cas’ pretty blue eyes for eternity, so he guesses he knows which issue he had. He fingers the sweater then nods in resignation.

“I'll come through. In a minute.”

“Sure thing.” Cas goes to leave, but at the last second turns and says, “I want you to feel comfortable here, Dean, for as long as you want to stay. So if you want or need anything, just ask. I'm always around.”

Then he's gone, and Dean sits on the bed for a while before starting the mammoth task of stripping off his sweat-drenched clothing and pulling on the second outfit. He turns the light on, squints at how bright it is, and gives his reflection a cursory once-over in the mirror. Sunken eyes, check. Dark shadows, check. Pale skin, check. Cracked lips, check. Scratches to his neck, slowly fading, check. One particularly deep gouge to his collarbone, five days old (he has to tug his shirt down to see it), check. No scratches to his face however, not for a while. That's progress, or so he's been told. He doesn't feel particularly progressive right now. Perhaps some dinner might help; medication certainly will. He can hear Sam clattering about and the sound of the television playing some nonsensical sitcom. He needs to clean up his wrist; the cuts aren't deep, just crescent-moon shaped and raw-looking, but he needs to wipe off the dried blood. He doesn't suppose Sam keeps peroxide in the house, he probably has no need for it, but he must have something. He should clean the cuts, that's what he's been told. Clean them up, move on.

Move on. Yeah, sure.

He takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and heads out into the hallway.

And instantly, he runs into a problem. The bathroom door is closed and he doesn't dare knock or try to push it open. So, instead, he just stares at it in muted horror, thinking about the blood on his wrist and working himself slowly up into a panic until a voice from the kitchen says,

“Dean? Everything OK?”

It's Cas, and he's holding a dish towel and wearing sweats, and he's smiling. Dean breathes in and out through his nose, trying to calm himself and quell the rising panic of being caught self-harming less than a day after being brought home. Sam will know he's a failure now, he’ll be so disappointed. He casts another anguished look at the closed door, sensing Cas’ demeanor change. Shit. Now Cas knows he's a failure too. Everyone knows. Everyone who _matters_ knows. His head hangs and he feels the beginnings of tears prick his eyes; he traces a sore spot on his palm with a nail as panic rises.

_Don't, Dean. Hold it together. Don't do this here, not now…_

“Dean?” Then Cas is close, right beside him, and he looks down to see his hand extended, palm up and open in offering. “Come through, let me look.”

He knows. How does he know? But he goes. Numbly, shaking a little, he goes, almost unaware that Cas has gently taken his elbow and is guiding him to the sink. The floor is unpleasantly cold under his bare feet and he wishes he’d remembered to put socks on. Cas’ finger brushing his wrist shocks him into movement and he jerks his hand back into his chest protectively.

“Don’t,” he whispers, ashamed of himself, of his actions, and unhappy that Cas has to see him this way. What must the guy think of him now? He’ll probably be straight on to Sam, asking him politely to find somewhere else for his crazy brother to go. Or not so politely, maybe. He doesn’t want to overhear a fight about him. Doesn’t want to imagine what Sam might say in response.

“Dean, I just want to look. I’m not going to hurt you.” Cas’ voice is kind and soothing and, as Dean braves meeting his gaze, so are his eyes. They sparkle prettily in the lights from beneath the kitchen cabinets. “Will you let me look?”

He nods mutely, and allows Cas to prise his hand gently from his chest, turn it palm up, and then a fingertip brushes the soft skin of his inner wrist right next to the cut. To his surprise, Cas smiles and actually looks relieved. The hell?

“It isn’t deep. In fact, once I’ve wiped the blood away you’ll barely notice it. Can I clean it up for you, or do you want to do it yourself?”

Oh. He's relieved it isn't worse. Right. Cas probably has visions of walking in on Dean in a pool of his own vomit. Or blood. He tries to think of a way to reassure the other man that he isn't suicidal, not anymore, at least he doesn't think he is. He wants to live. Wants a life. But the blue eyes are unsettling and the longer he stares into them the more he feels like he's falling.

“Y-you can. If you want.” Dean can barely speak; he’s watching Cas touch his wrist and trying to remember the last time he was touched without intent. Without someone wanting to restrain him or pull him somewhere or just hold him so he couldn’t get away. The nurses liked to check his wrists and arms for fresh marks, and they also liked to take his hand to press the tiny paper cup filled with tablets into it. He hated it when they did that, hated to be touched period. He doesn’t remember having an aversion to touch as a child, but his memories of the last five years have blurred seamlessly with his childhood and teenage memories so he can’t really be sure what he did and didn’t mind back then. He should be flinching away from Cas’ hand but he finds himself almost leaning into it, watching as Cas gently dampens a cloth then adds a little antiseptic and wipes the blood from his skin with such tenderness that it almost makes him want to cry for some reason.

“There. All better.” Cas smiles warmly at him and clasps his hand in his for just a second. “You feel OK?”

“I think so, yeah,” And he does. He does feel better now, now that he looks down at Cas’ handiwork and the blood is gone. The cut is still there but it’s tiny and Cas is right: barely noticeable. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“I know. But sometimes you just need taking care of a little when you feel crappy.” Cas turns away towards the fridge just as the toilet flushes and Sam wanders out of the bathroom, and instantly Dean misses the warmth of his skin. “So! Dinner. What do you fancy, Dean? I was going to make tuna rice salad, how does that sound?”

“Sounds great! Right, Dean?” Sam claps Dean on the shoulder and it’s awkward, _so_ awkward. They’re both tense and watching each other from the corners of their eyes. Sam pulls out a stool for himself and gestures for Dean to take the one next to him, then they sit in silence as Cas clatters about in the fridge, clearly trying to make as much noise as possible to break the mood. “Dean loves salad, ain't that right?”

“Only if it comes on the side of a juicy double,” he mutters, mostly to himself but Cas’ head appears around the side of the refrigerator door. He sees Sam shake his head and hears him sigh.

“Huh? I didn't catch that, Dean, is tuna salad not OK?”

“No, it’s fine!” Shit. He hurries to make amends. “It’s perfect. I just… yeah. It’s great.”

“Dean used to eat like a caveman,” Sam wrinkles his nose and smiles, attempting brotherly humour. “But now his doctor says-“

“And I’d still eat like one, given the chance.” He says, loudly, not wanting to bring up his therapist in front of Cas after already embarrassing himself once in the last half hour. He doesn't want to give the other man more reminders than necessary that he needs help to get through his days. “But salad is fine, too.”

“Well,” Cas frowns, scrutinising the contents of the fridge. “I don’t have burgers, but I could rustle something up if you want something more substantial.”

“He’s fine, Cas, don’t worry, just make whatever you were planning to do. Dean will eat anything you make, I’m sure.” Sam turns to him with a forced smile, and it's clear it wasn't a suggestion. “Did you take your meds?’

“No. I will do.” He flushes, feeling his skin redden right down to his collarbone. “Cas, it’s fine, really. I don’t wanna be a pain in the ass or make you switch up your menu.”

“Oh please, menu? I’ll improvise.” Cas grins, and it’s so genuine and warm that it lights up his entire face and for a second Dean can do nothing but stare at him, enraptured. “Give me a half hour and it’ll be ready. Oh,” He tosses a tablet bottle to Dean, followed by a bottle of water. “Here you go.”

Then he turns away like nothing happened.

And Cas makes good on his word, much to Sam’s evident dismay. Less than thirty minutes later and he’s sliding a loaded plate in front of Dean’s nose, piled high with food and he feels like burying his face in it and stuffing himself until he passes out. Marinated chicken on a brioche bun with quinoa, salad and three rashers of smoked bacon on Dean’s. The fact that he has a little something extra makes him smile internally; it makes him feel special. He tucks in with relish, unable to hold back the little moans and sighs of rapture at how good it tastes. Has food always been this good out in the real world? He’s sure he has mayo on his chin as he smiles across the table at Cas, who is munching his way through his own burger and looking almost as happy. Sam eats silently between them both, picking at his food and toying with his water glass, clearly uncomfortable. Eventually, it becomes too much and it’s Dean who breaks the quiet.

“So, Sammy. We got some catching up to do, huh?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, missing Sam’s wince of disgust. “What’s new with you?”

“What’s new? In, like, the last five years?” Sam sounds just short of incredulous. “Quite a lot, Dean. I went to Stanford, I graduated, I got a job. A job I’m pretty good at.”

“A job nobody ever hears anything about, may I add.” Cas grins and takes another bite of his burger, the friendly sarcasm thick in his tone. “In fact, I’ve no idea where your brother works or what he does, it's all a total secret and he never talks my ear off at all…”

“Can it, Cas,” Sam snipes, clearly rattled. “So I work a lot, big deal. So do you.”

“I do, yeah.” Cas shrugs and licks his fingers. “I play hard, too. You could use a little of that.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Sam pushes his plate away, his food only half-eaten. Dean eyes it with interest and Sam rolls his eyes, shoving it in his direction. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Good,” He tries to keep it light, scooping up the remains of the burger and enjoying. “Twenty-one was a good age, it suited me.”

Twenty-one was the year before it all started. He'd been young, carefree, and completely clueless about what lay ahead for him. He swallows, staring at his food. He glances up to see Cas and Sam trading expressions, unreadable ones that he's sure are pertaining to him, and he rolls his eyes.

“You two are like a married couple.”

“Dean!” Sam flushes. “Cas is like my brother. _Our_ brother,” he quickly corrects. “Plus I have a girlfriend, so even if he _was_ interested, which he _isn’t_ , I'm not…”

“Sam, relax please,” Cas sips his green tea. “Before you burst a blood vessel. Dean was joking. There's only one queer guy in this house and we all know it ain't you, no matter how many times you get mistaken for my better half.”

Dean isn't sure, but he thinks Cas’ blue eyes flash to him just for a second, checking, assessing his reaction. Cas is queer. Now that's new and interesting information. Dean is… Dean has no idea who or what he is. But the very fact that he finds Cas’ sexuality intriguing is interesting in itself, and he logs that for later. Cas’ eyes are still on him, and now so are Sam’s. Like they're both waiting for him to pass comment or something. So now, of course, feeling awkward and pressured into saying something in response, all he comes up with is,

“Queer?”

“Asexual, I think,” Cas studies him over the rim of his mug. “But I don’t really like labels.”

“Asexual? So… what, you just don't like sex?” The concept is intriguing to Dean and resonates somewhat deeply inside him, but the long-dormant Alpha male inside him just can't let it slide. It has to make a crass comment, and Dean can't hold it back. “What the hell’s the matter with you, man?”

He regrets the words as soon as they're out, instantly berating himself for his rudeness, and his cheeks flush as he chances a look at Cas, certain he's about to be on the receiving end of a hissy fit. Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth. But, surprisingly, Cas looks completely unruffled as he wraps both hands around his mug of tea and stares Dean down. Then, quietly, he says,

“Interesting question, coming from you.”

Dean can almost taste the ‘ _oh shit_ ’ vibes coming from Sam. He gazes in shock at Cas, unable to believe he would say something so utterly brazen without warning, but then Cas makes a face. He scrunches up his nose and the corners of his eyes wrinkle, and he winks. He fucking _winks_. He's terrible at it, too. And in that split-second, his expression tells Dean a hundred things at once. It reassures him that it was just gentle teasing, but it also says, _I'm not going to pussyfoot around you and pretend nothing happened. That isn't what you want. That isn't what you need._ And Dean just stares. Sam coughs into the silence, reaches for Cas, evidently intending to hit him on the arm for his audacity, but then something happens. Dean snorts. Loudly. Then again, as a foreign, strange feeling bubbles up in his chest and escapes from his lips. Laughter. He's laughing. He hasn't laughed in months, and now that he's started he can't seem to stop. His stomach hurts, his cheeks ache, his eyes burn, and he's laughing like a child even though nothing seems to be really that funny. It just got him. Somehow, someway, what Cas said just got him.

Eventually, the laughter dissipates and Dean wipes his streaming eyes as Sam stares in mixed concern and shock, and Cas just smiles. Dean is the one who reaches over and hits Cas genially on his (gorgeously firm) bicep.

“You're OK, Cas. You're OK.”

And Cas says, “So are you,” and he doesn't miss the multiple meanings of the three little words.

*

Castiel excuses himself to his room for a while, leaving Dean to the moment he's been dreading: him and Sam, alone together for the first time since Sam was a teenager. He doesn't know what to say or do, so settles for toying with his water bottle and staring at his hands. Eventually, quiet words come to his lips.

“You didn't visit.”

“I did, Dean,” Sam sounds tired and wary, as though he's been expecting this question and isn't looking forward to dealing with it. “I did come visit. But every time I did, you were having a… bad day.”

A bad day. That means Dean’s depression had got the better of him and he had turned violent either against the orderlies or against himself, the result being that he was put in what the hospital called the ‘quiet room’ to calm down, usually restrained and sedated to stop him trying to scratch his skin off. Always watched, never left alone, a nurse or an orderly always within reach. Or, at the bleakest times, he was catatonic with depression, staring unseeingly at those around him and requiring a catheter and feeding tube to keep him going. Those particular phases could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, and he shudders at the idea of Sam seeing him like that.

“Every time?” He can’t stop the skepticism from seeping into his voice. “Really? Kinda hard to believe, Sammy.”

“It’s true, Dean. I did come, I wanted to see you so badly. But it was so difficult, and seeing you that way was so hard.”

“Oh yeah, I bet it was really hard for you.” He sits back, scoffing, scratching unconsciously at his arm beneath his sweater. Sam’s eyes follow the movement and he cringes, feeling judged. They lapse into tense silence again, broken only by hollow small talk which neither of them really want to have. He’s sure it _was_ hard for his little brother, no doubt about it. He's harbouring a huge burden of guilt at the fact that he left Sammy essentially on his own while he was committed. But when he gets so into his own head that the rest of the world fades away, it’s hard to see anything but his own problems. He voices this, and Sam bites back that he _knows_ , that it’s always been about Dean and he doesn’t mind taking a back seat but why can’t Dean get that he _tried_? Tried to see him, _wanted_ to see him? And then they’re arguing, trading terse, tense words and Dean is starting to feel cornered. Trapped. Like he’s already failing. He’s just about to get up and go when Sam sighs heavily and sits back in his chair.

“I just wanted the best for all of us, Dean. After dad… and you left me. You left. I was a kid.”

“I didn’t leave you, Sammy.” His eyes and throat burn. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I…”

The words I _love you_ are at his lips, but won’t come. Sam gazes at him critically for a moment then, to Dean’s heartbreak, rolls his eyes.

“Sure, Dean. Whatever. Look, I think it’s been a long day and we’re both tired, so why don’t you…”

“Dean?” Cas’ voice cuts strongly across the room; he hadn’t even noticed the other man come in. “I need to go return a library book, I wondered if you wanted to come along for the ride. See the city a bit.”

“Dean doesn’t want to go out, Cas,” Sam snaps testily. “He needs to _rest_. It's late.”

“It was just a question, Sam, no need to bite my head off.” Cas’ reply is even but his cheeks flush. “And I believe I was speaking to Dean.”

“OK, why are you being such an ass?” Sam spins in his chair to fix his housemate with a glare. “I’m just looking out for my brother.”

“Sammy, I can decide for myself,” Dean interjects, reaching across the table but stopping just before his fingers can touch Sam’s arm. There's a distance between them that seems to be widening with every word exchanged. “I’d like to go. It would be nice to get some air. And I’m safe with Cas, right?” He sends a hopeful smile in the direction of the blue-eyed guy currently verbally sparring with his brother, and Cas smiles back.

“Of course. It’s cold out, though, so grab a jacket.”

“Sure.”

With one last concerned look at Sam, Dean slides off his stool and heads for his bedroom both excited and anxious to be heading out into the world for the first time in a long, long while. He always thought it would be Sam at his side when he tried being out in society again, but something deep in his chest is warming at the idea that it’s going to be Cas. It feels right.

*

When Dean comes back out of his bedroom, he pauses before heading for the kitchen: he can hear Sam and Cas having a furious, albeit quiet, argument. He shuffles a little closer and can pick up the majority of their words.

“…ready for this, Cas! What the hell are you thinking? … understand…”

“… More ready than you think… His decision…”

“…Make his own decisions… Irresponsible…”

There's the sound of a cupboard door slamming, then Cas growls a little louder, “Don't you dare call me irresponsible, Sam Winchester. I'm just trying to look out for you both. Stop getting in my way.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might know best here?” Sam’s voice is rising too as their disagreement becomes more heated.

“Why?” Dean can hear a hint of mocking in Cas’ voice. “Because you're his brother? Sorry, Sam, but you know Dean about as well as I do right now. You haven't shared more than DNA strands in years, so forgive me for not deferring to you as the oracle of Dean’s well-being. You’re pretty much building a relationship from scratch here.”

“I know that! So I’m trying to do the best I can for him, I’m trying to look out for him!”

“Well, maybe you need to try a little less. It’s probably too much for him, having someone hover and watch him all the time. He needs a chance to stand on his own two feet, without being babied by everyone around him. If he's ready to go out, he's ready. Or at least he's ready to try, why are you trying to prevent that?”

“I'm trying to stop him from getting hurt!” Sam yells, and Dean flinches back in shock. “Or from hurting himself, or someone else! He's unstable, Cas! You're naive!”

There's a loaded silence, then the sound of Cas scraping up his car keys and sighing.

“Maybe. But I’d rather risk that than keep Dean locked up when he wants to try for normality. There's nothing sadder than a caged bird who wants to fly.”

A moment later, Sam exhales sharply and mutters, “I give up. Just don't get yourselves killed somehow,” then he's heading for the bedrooms and Dean doesn't have a chance to hide himself. His brother’s eyes rake critically over him then Sam shrugs.

“Enjoy yourself. Be careful. All the rest.”

“Will do,” Dean tries for a smile but it's pointless: Sam has walked past him and into his room, slamming the door behind him so hard that Dean jumps and the artwork on the walls rattles. A second later, Cas’ messy dark head appears around the corner. His cheeks are flushed with anger but his eyes and smile are bright.

“You ready?”

Dean nods.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

 _There's nothing sadder than a caged bird who wants to fly…_ He’s Cas’ caged bird. And he wants to fly.

“Yeah, Cas. I'm ready.” Dean sets his shoulders determinedly. “Let's go return that library book.”

They walk together down to the parking garage beneath the building, and Dean whistles quietly when he sees Cas’ ride. An ‘88 Mustang, deep custom blue and clearly very cared for. Cas grins at his face and strokes his car with unconcealed adoration.

“Sam told me you're into cars. Yours is a beauty, too.”

“I don't have a car,” Dean frowns, climbing delicately into the passenger seat and stroking the leather seats in awe. “Not anymore.”

“You don’t?” Cas starts the engine and Dean swears he feels a jolt of pleasure up his spine at the sound. Damn, that’s beautiful. “So that beautiful black beast Sam has been so carefully tending to must belong to some other brother of his named Dean, right?”

“You can’t mean…” No. It’s not possible. Cas is deluded. “My dad had this car… A ’67 Impala. She was a beauty, she really was. But… Sam sold her, I swear he did.”

“I don’t think he did, Dean.” Cas’ voice is sweet and soft as he pulls out into the street. “I think he kept it for you, I think he knew you’d want it back one day.”

Sam kept Baby for him. Baby had been his rock, his freedom, his solace. Baby had been the love of his life. He suddenly regrets his unspoken accusation upstairs, that Sam didn't care enough to visit. If his little brother has really been tending to Baby and holding onto her for Dean, then he must care. He must have known Dean would get out. He had more faith in Dean than Dean did in himself.

“Where is she?” His voice is thick. He loved that damn car so much, and the idea of Sam keeping hold of her and looking out for her is making emotion rise in his chest.

“In a garage two blocks down. Sam thinks ours isn’t secure enough for her, and he wanted her kept safe.” Cas shoots him a warm smile. “Maybe you can drive her again someday soon.”

“Nah. They won’t give me a license.” Dean watches as apartment buildings and coffee shops zip by outside in a flurry of snow. Christmas isn't far off, and the city is decorated appropriately in waiting. Worried that he's causing more trouble than he's worth, Dean asks, “Do you and Sam fight a lot?”

“Oh, yes,” Cas grins like it's amusing to him somehow. “We squabble like an old married couple. Today it was you. Yesterday it was because I didn't take the trash out. Tomorrow he will forget to get milk or will somehow make me late for class. Don't worry, Dean. Fighting is a hobby of hours.” Cas takes a left at the intersection. “I keep waiting for him to get sick of it all and move out, but he seems pretty settled.”

“You've known each other a while, then,” Dean observes, staring out of the window and trying fervently not to think about how little he knows about his baby brother.

“Four, five years. He went to Stanford with my twin, Jimmy.”

“You didn't go to Stanford?”

“Me? No,” Cas laughs and it's a pleasant sound. He does that a lot, Dean muses. He's already decided that he likes the sound of Cas’ laughter. “Jimmy got the brains. Me? I just went to MIT instead.”

He shoots Dean an impish smirk and Dean has to resist the urge to punch him on the shoulder playfully. MIT. One of the most prestigious universities in the world. And Cas _just_ went there, did he? He wonders what Cas’ twin is like, if they bickered over their university choices or supported each other. A sweet smile is twisting Cas’ mouth, and he finds he's smiling too. He hasn't felt this relaxed around someone so new in… forever? Has he _ever_ felt this level of playful harmony in the presence of another person? Cas is so easy to talk to and to be around, and he hasn’t felt excited about a friendship for way too long. Not that he had a huge selection of people to choose from in the hospital, and he mostly kept to himself. Before he can descend into memory, he notices the sign for the library come and go.

“Cas? You missed your stop.”

“Oh, I didn’t have a book to return,” Cas says easily, taking the turn at the intersection that directs him out of town. “I just thought you’d like to get out, and it seemed as good an excuse as any.”

“No way. You lied to me and Sammy?” Dean grins. “Bad influence, man.”

“I’m sure you’ll forgive me.” The light from the streetlamps is causing Cas’ skin to glow and his eyes to sparkle beautifully. Dean watches him as he drives, enraptured. They’re both silent for a good while until Cas speaks again. “Whenever I’m having a bad day, I grab my keys and head out for a drive. The feeling of the road beneath me, stretching out as far as I want to go, it helps. I can clear my head, I can forget my worries, and if I play some music everything just seems to fade away. It feels like freedom. I know how much you love your cars, so,” Cas shrugs one shoulder. He's trying to be casual, but the amount of thought he's put into this idea is showing through. “I thought you’d maybe enjoy it too. Going for a drive.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more right now,” Dean leans his head on the seat, still watching Cas. “I wish I could drive my Baby. I miss her so much, I can’t wait to see her.”

“Well, let’s get you to the DMV one day next week and see what we can do about getting your wings back,” There’s something soft and caring in Cas’ voice and Dean blinks as his vision blurs.

“Wings? Or wheels?”

“Same thing, at least to me.” Cas tilts his head and smiles at him. “When I’m out on the road, nobody but me and the world ahead, it feels like flying.”

That shuts Dean up for a good long while. Eventually, he reaches for the radio and turns it on and an old rock ballad comes streaming through the car, right into his heart. Aside from driving, the one thing he missed more than anything else was music. Music and city lights and the ground beneath his feet. This is what he dreamed of when he was inside: freedom.

“I like this song.”

His voice is thick with emotion as he watches the city lights stream past outside, giving way to farmland and the silhouetted mountains on the horizon. The snow is thicker here and beautiful. Above them, the sky gazes down, open and inviting and full of stars.

“Me too,” says Cas, and he smiles. And he just drives for hours and hours, until Dean falls asleep at his side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So 3 chapters have become 4, although the next one is much shorter and more of an epilogue than anything else. Enjoy :)

Sometimes waking up is the hardest. It's in those few minutes, where he isn't quite conscious yet, that he remembers and forgets all at once. He can't immediately place where he is, and when the walls in front of his sleepy eyes aren't immediately familiar he's filled with so much dread he thinks it will consume him entirely, and he sits up so violently that he regularly pulls muscles or cricks his neck. But he has to do it because he has to prove to himself that he's not restrained, not back in those rooms with a kindly nurse at his side, unable to sit up or even scratch his nose. It never lasted long, time in the quiet rooms, an hour or two at most. As soon as he could prove he was calm and was no longer a danger to himself, they'd let him go. He would rub his wrists and hang his head and follow them silently back down the hall to his own room, ashamed and saddened by his own lack of control. Waking up in his own bedroom soon became a minor personal accomplishment.

It's been three weeks. Three long weeks of living with Sam and Cas, and Dean is starting to get to grips with it all. They both have fairly set routines, and that helps. He knows where they're both going to be and when, and he's not sure if they've orchestrated it this way between them but he's never left alone for more than an hour. If it's not Sam walking back in with his laptop and suit jacket draped over an arm, it's Cas wandering humming in with his satchel over his shoulder - the strap worn and frayed and the bag misshapen from carrying too many heavy textbooks - and soon he finds that the itch of irritation at always been accompanied wears off and he enjoys having someone there. They don't make him do things he doesn't want to: if he wants to read in his room, they let him. If he wants to binge-watch _Dr_ _Sexy_ and eat popcorn at nine AM, they let him. And, increasingly, if he wants to accompany them to the grocery store or the library or the cafe down the street, they let him. It's like having two super-chilled parents, he thinks on multiple occasions. Letting him laze about with his thumb up his ass while they go out to work. So he busies himself, when he can, with the cleaning and the laundry and, on occasion and usually under Cas’ supervision, the cooking in an attempt to pay his way.

His first outing with Cas to pick up coffee and croissants from _Meg’s Place_ , a French-inspired cafe a block away, had gone almost without hitch. They had been queuing together, Cas keeping up some rambling litany about a class he had been to (Dean knows it was meant to keep him distracted rather than actually intend to bore him to tears) and what felt like seconds later they were at the front of the queue and Dean found he couldn't speak. Couldn't ask for what he wanted. The warm eyes of the curvy blonde barista were on him, waiting, Cas was watching him, there was a line of people behind him, and... he froze. Blood rushed in his ears then retreated, leaving behind an eerie silence only he could hear, and he didn't realise that Cas had ordered for them both until he was being nudged along to wait for their drinks.

"I... I'm sorry, Cas," he had choked out, hands cold yet palms damp with perspiration. "I don't know what..."

"Don't worry about it," Cas had touched him lightly on the back, right on his spine, and Dean had unconsciously leaned into the comfort. "Mint white mocha, right? Sounds dreamy, I got one too. Hey," Cas' blue eyes had suddenly flashed up, fixed on his, intense and reassuring and sensing his distress. "Don't worry. You're fine. We're doing great," The hand had slid from his spine downwards, to cup his wrist. "Team work. I ordered," Cas grinned, all wrinkled nose and flashing white teeth as he held up Dean's wallet. "You paid. I like this arrangement."

And he had squeezed Dean's wrist then released him to take their drinks from the barista; Dean had missed his warmth instantly.

So now they go twice a week, always after his therapy sessions. Cas picks him up from his appointments in that sexy muscle car of his and they descend on _Meg’s Place_ in a flurry of snowy boots and red cheeks, ordering gingerbread lattes and hot fudge cappuccinos and an assortment of other tooth-rottingly sweet treats because Cas likes the names and Dean likes the sugar hits. When they're settled in the booth that is slowly becoming ‘theirs’, Dean will sit and look out of the window, wiping away a thin layer of condensation, and will watch as people tramp past in the snow, bundled up in scarves and hats and mittens. Cas studies, spreading his books across the table and looking too adorable for his own good in dark-rimmed glasses and a knitted purple scarf. Dean likes watching him, too.

Sam joins them when he can, when work allows, but it's always just a little awkward. He knows his little brother is trying unbearably hard to make things right between them, to make Dean comfortable and to get to know him again. And he's not doing anything wrong, Dean can't fault him on a single thing. But it's just _how_ hard Sam’s trying that makes it all just a little bit tense. With Cas, time flows naturally because he doesn't feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. But Sam stares, Sam asks him constantly if he's OK or if he needs anything, and it's suffocating. On one occasion, at home, Dean overheard Cas and Sam hissing cross words at each other like snakes: Cas was telling Sam to back off while Sam spat back that Dean’s family and Cas should be the one stepping off. He had retreated before he could hear any more, and only ventured out of his room for dinner, which has been a tense affair. Cas had gone to bed pretty soon afterwards, leaving Sam and Dean in uncomfortable silence until Sam too excused himself to bed and Dean had been left watching the snow fall outside.

*

There's a thud, a yelp, pain lances through his shoulder and down his arm, and Dean’s awake. He had been dreaming of long, endless corridors, the floor icy cold beneath his bare feet, with no windows or doors and the chilling sensation of someone following him close behind. He's panting, as he usually is when he wakes from these dreams, but this time something feels off. He can't catch his breath and his chest feels constricted and tight: he recognises the early signs of a panic attack but is neither awake nor in control enough to fight it off. A low moan of distress leaves his lips as he curls into himself, shivering on the wooden floor, and closes his eyes as remnants of the dream flash in his mind’s eye. Minutes or seconds or hours pass, then there's a very real presence at his side and he swipes at them with a raw cry. Dark hair, blue eyes, soft MIT sweater… it isn't the figure from his dreams. It's Cas, looking like he just woke up himself, and he's kneeling close by, his lips forming words Dean can't discern through the roaring in his ears. But as he watches Cas, focuses in on the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and the way his eyes catch shards of moonlight from the open blinds, the roaring seems to melt away and he can hear his own rasping attempts for breath and pathetic sniffles as tears wet his cheeks.

“It's alright, Dean,” Cas is saying, soft and soothing. “Just a nightmare. Dean, come back to me. Dean…”

He can't. He whines, low in his chest, arms wrapped around himself and his breath escapes him. Cas’ hand is extended on the wooden floor, palm up and open, towards him.

“Dean, may I touch you?”

“No. Yes. No. I don't _know!_ ” He fists his hands in his hair, curling up tighter and jamming his knees against his chest. Pain lances through his scalp as he grips a little too hard.

“It's OK not to know,” Cas’ voice is there, husky and soothing, and Dean tries to focus on it. “How about I try, and if you don't like it I'll back off. How does that sound?”

Dean can't speak so he just nods, and Cas scoots a little closer until he's sitting at Dean’s side with his feet tucked under him. For some reason, Dean focuses in on his knees, visible through the rips in his well-loved jeans. Cas’ skin is tanned and covered in a light layer of dark hair, and the ripped denim stretches around his joints as he settles on the floor in a comfortable position. Dean feels warm fingers wrap gently around his forearm, pausing to check his reaction before sliding down to his wrist. His heart is hammering in his ears and he's sure he can taste his own coppery blood. He's digging his nails into the palm of his other hand and Cas notifies, reaching for it, then they sit quietly staring at where their skin touches. Dean’s breathing hitches in his chest as he gasps and whines, trying and failing to get himself under control. He goes for his palms again but his nails meet the tender skin of the back of Cas’ hands - when had he switched his grip? He moans, low in his throat, tilting his head back to rest against the bed as his whole body tenses and spasms with panic. Panic at what he doesn't know. But he doesn't feel safe. And he wants to feel it. Feel the oh-so-familiar pain that comes from breaking his skin because that's the only way he knows to ground himself again, to bring himself back. The feel of his skin giving way beneath the smooth blade of a razor and the blood that wells up in spots along the length of the cut, that's his solace from panic. It's wrong, he knows it is, but it doesn't stop the need. And right now, no matter what Cas is trying to do to help, the other man’s touch and voice are fading away as the need to see his own blood takes over. He tries to pull his hands away but Cas has him held tight and he moans in anguish when the other man moves closer, to sit beside him, and continues to hold his hands tightly but gently, not hard enough to bruise. His chest tightens, his vision darkens, and tears sting his closed eyelids. He can hear Cas murmuring words into his ear and tries to lean into him, attempts to let his voice carry him to a better place.

“… Not going to let you hurt yourself… Know you can get through this… Will get easier… I'm here… I'm here…”

“Is everything alright?” Sam’s voice comes from the doorway, sounding very thin and far away, and Dean tries to bring his hands up to cover his eyes but Cas’ hold is too firm. He feels the other man nod next to him and feels his brother’s concern as he frowns at them sprawled on the floor by the bed. Cas adjusts his grip, eases off just a little and Dean tries to breathe again - and fails, his vision blurring and chest tightening.

“Yes, he's alright, Sam. Just having a moment.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Maybe some water? Dean, do you want anything?” Cas’ lips are right at his ear, his breath warm and soothing. The tightness in Dean’s chest seems to ease just a fraction. “Will any of your meds help?”

He shakes his head, feeling the soft fabric of Cas’ t-shirt against his cheek. He breathes slowly, inhaling and exhaling, leaning into the other man, exhaustion threatening to drag him under. His hands aren't being gripped so much now as held, they're basically just sitting together on the floor holding hands, and Dean can't hold back a slightly hysterical giggle at the thought. The door clicks shut, Sam is gone, and Cas is here. Cas, who smells like cinnamon and studies too hard and doesn't seem to mind Dean and all his fucked up nonsense invading his life. Cas, who is stroking circles onto the backs of both his hands at once and still maintaining the low litany of comforting words. His shoulder, well-muscled and strong, makes a good pillow and as his consciousness swims dreamily he swears Cas rests his cheek on the top of his head.

“I’m here, Dean. I’m right here.”

Dean closes his eyes. And sleeps.

*

Time, as it has a habit of doing, passes. Christmas comes and goes, a quiet affair with just Dean and Sam and they go out to eat at a place in town and manage the most normal, relaxed conversations they've ever had. Dean eats like a horse, Sam laughs, and they trade small gifts. Cas has gone to visit his twin brother but sends Dean an innumerate amount of text messages and in the evening they Skype and Cas is blushing when they say goodnight. Dean can't work out why, but when he mentions it curiously to Sam he's met with averted eyes and a shrug. Huh. Weird.

They talk more. Christmas dinner had broken some kind of dam between them, one that had been holding back smiles and jokes and laughter, and now Dean feels more free around his brother. It’s as though Sam had been holding Christmas as some kind of milestone and now that they’ve passed it some of his guard has dropped and he’s more relaxed and doesn’t seem to watch Dean with the hawk-eyes he’s grown so used to. They feel more like brothers, more like family, and when Dean grunts this at Sam one evening as they both head off to bed he swears his little brother has tears in his eyes.

New Year rolls around and all three of them watch the ball drop on TV and toast to new adventures with cheap champagne and party hats. Cas and Sam hug tightly, Sam embraces Dean and they both grin and shift awkwardly.

“Happy New Year, Sammy. Here’s to many more.” Dean inclines his head in a nod and sips his champagne, grimacing at the taste, and Sam smiles warmly back and raises his glass in return. “Cas really has the worst taste in alcohol, right?”

“He sure does. But I’ll let you tell him that,” Sam smirks and backs away, and Dean’s gaze then falls to Cas, who is watching him with a strange expression on his face and hasn't moved to hug him yet. Dean ignores the unfounded spike of worry and slings an arm around his shoulder, drawing him close, buoyed by one glass of champagne and the lights from the television.

“Thanks for everything, Cas. You're kinda awesome.”

Something shines in the familiar blue eyes as Cas peers up at him, held close against Dean’s chest. He looks like he's about to say something profound then smiles to himself, shaking his head a little, and whatever was about to cross his lips is gone.

“Happy New Year, Dean. Thanks for being you.”

Then time freezes as Cas touches his fingertips to the side of Dean’s jaw, leans up, and presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek. It's so brief, happens in the space between one blink and the next, but it definitely happens and Dean has to fight his sudden and unwavering desire to then his head and place his own kiss to the side of Cas’ temple. Instead, he just stares in shock as Cas’ nose crinkles in a smile and his free hand finds Dean’s and squeezes.

Then he's gone, moving away towards the kitchen in search of more champagne before Dean can really fathom what just happened. He stands dumbly with his fingers touching the spot where Cas’ lips had been, staring after him as an old and long-forgotten glow awakens in his chest.

*

“Don't tell me. Studying _again.”_

It's February, Valentine's Day, and Dean has wandered out of the bathroom after dinner to find Cas almost asleep on top of a pile of literature. He's sprawled across the kitchen island in a cable-knit sweater, two sizes too big, and his head is pillowed on his arm, turned to watch the pen dangling from his own lax fingers. His eyes are almost shut and his glasses are askew - Dean fights back the desire to reach over and remove them, allowing Cas to sleep. But at the sound of someone coming in, Cas sits bolt upright, wide-eyed, and says to the espresso maker, ‘I wasn't sleeping!’

Dean guffaws and Cas twists around to send him a baleful glare. “I _wasn't!_ I was.. thinking about something.”

“Oh, so that's what we're calling it these days?” Dean continues to smirk at Cas who is rubbing his eyes mutinously, and makes his way to the coffee machine. “Want one?”

“Please. I have two assignments to finish before next Friday and a ton of reading to do. I'll need to prop my eyes open with matchsticks at this rate.”

Cas yawns hugely, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his shoulders to the accompaniment of joints popping. The satisfied sigh that leaves his lips _doesn't_ go straight to Dean’s cock, nor does he think that Cas looks utterly adorable this way. He leans over and flicks the thermostat up another few degrees: it's chilly in the apartment and Cas may enjoy huddling up under ten layers but he certainly doesn't. He makes their coffees - adding creamer and sugar to both, remembering with a smile how Cas good-naturedly now complains that Dean has destroyed his ability to drink normal coffee - and hands one to his housemate who sighs happily at the smell of caffiene and sugar. Cas settles more comfortably on his stool, the sleeves of his sweater pulled down so that his fingers are just visible as he clasps his mug with both hands. Dean leans against the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, nursing his own drink and staring down into it, distracted. Valentine's Day. He used to love this day, he's sure. He used to always get dressed up to the nines and go out, inevitably succeeding in scoring with a pretty young woman looking to be swept off her feet. Now he's home alone (well, not alone but he's certainly not with a romantic partner) and his desire to chase skirt has all but ebbed away. Sam is out with friends so it’s just him and Cas, and he glances up to see the bespectacled nerd studying him intently as though he's one of his textbooks, and he coughs self-consciously. Privately, he can think of many worse ways to spend his Valentine’s.

"So. Valentine's Day, Cas, and you've got your nose in a book. No hot date?"

"No." Cas doesn't look too interested by the question. "A socially constructed day to make couples feel both smug and under pressure to perform random acts of meaningless romance whilst simultaneously torturing those of us without a partner and making us feel inadequate for no substantial reason? I'm not into it.Plus, you know me, Dean. I'm not seeing anyone."

"Why not? Catch like you," he grins, covering up the flutter in his chest at his own words. "Surely someone must catch your eye. Surely you’d want to spend today with someone special.“

"You think I'm a catch?" The expression on Cas' face has changed somewhat; he's regarding Dean a little more closely. He actually looks surprised at the suggestion. Surprised and... is that hope glittering in his azure eyes? "Really?"

"Well," Dean stares at his socked feet, feeling his cheeks burn. "You know. Objectively."

"Objectively." There's humour in Cas' repetition. "Well, thank, Dean. You're a catch too, if I may say so." Stunned, Dean's gaze shoots up to meet Cas' and finds amusement sparkling there. "Objectively."

They smile at each other for a moment until Dean feels a little discomfited by the scrutiny and looks away. A moment later, Cas shifts and pushes away some books to set his mug down.

"So, how are you, Dean? Generally speaking?"

"I'm..." He's not meant to say fine. His therapist has told him to try not to say he's fine when he isn't, that it's OK not to be OK and he doesn't need to put up a front where his close friends are concerned. "I'm getting there. Good days and bad days, you know?" He shuffles his feet. "But I feel better than I did. So. Yeah. Baby steps."

Talking about it all is still so hard. He normally sits in silence at his therapist's for a good ten minutes before she's able to get more than a few grunts out of him. He wonders if she would be proud of him for opening up to Cas even this small amount. Cas is nodding genially at him from his perch on his stool.

"Good. I'm very glad, Dean. And you know this place is your home for as long as you wish. As long as you don't mind all the mess," he waves a dismissive hand at his study materials. "But other than that I think we're pretty easy to live with."

"You are." Too easy, his mind supplies and Cas obviously catches a glimpse of something in his expression because he frowns.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Dunno." He sips his coffee, stalling. "Feel like I'm just freeloading off you two. Not paying my way. But..."

But the idea of getting a job seems too huge right now. He's just about managing to get through the day without giving in to the impulses to harm himself, and going outside with Sam and Cas is only just starting to feel normal. He doesn't want to imagine how tough he would find it if he had to actually interview and work somewhere - which he really hates himself for. He doesn't want to live off Sam and Cas forever and their hospitality will only extend so far. Cas, however, snorts and shakes his head.

"You're not freeloading, Dean. You're recovering. Different thing. It doesn't cost us any more to have you here, and you're pretty cheap to feed," Cas winks at him - badly, but it still sends Dean's heart aflutter within his chest. "And I know I speak for Sam and myself when I say we enjoy your company. I don't want you feeling pressured to go back to work."

"I guess." He drains his cup and sets it aside. "Dunno what I'd do for work anyway, not much I'm good at."

"Hey." Cas does frown at this, staring at Dean over the rim of his mug. "Don't do that, don't sell yourself short. So you've not had a job for a few years, big deal. I bet there's a lot of stuff you're very good at. Sam says you like cars. And you must have worked in the past?"

"I've done a few things. Mechanic. Bartender. Waited tables, though I'm not sure I can do that again."

He shudders at the memories. Noisy bars and restaurants, staff and managers shouting at each other, pounding music and breaking glass when fights erupted. Customers both flirting with him and talking down to him. No, no way. Not right now. But the idea of getting his hands dirty working on something, a project, now that's something he thinks he could eventually work up to.

“You're good with your hands, that's for sure. I can picture you doing something practical.” Cas leans over and squeezes Dean’s wrist. “But like I said, don't feel forced into getting a job before you're ready. Sam and I certainly don't want that.”

He doesn't know what to do, really, in the face of such kindness so he just shrugs and drops his gaze, and a moment later Cas turns back to his studies and it seems like their conversation is coming to a close. At least until Dean gets a sudden desire to act on the playful urge rising inside him and reaches out to swipe the book Cas is reaching for from his fingertips. Cas lets out a delighted yelp, spins on his chair and puts his hands on his hips, looking quite comical in his giant sweater.

“Dean!” He laughs, slides off his stool and follows him to the living room where Dean has plopped down on the sofa. “Can I have it back, please?”

He stands behind Dean, looking over the back of the couch and over his shoulder, and Dean’s skin tingles at his close proximity. He's sure he can feel the warmth of Cas’ body heat on the back of his neck. He flips the book open and points to a random paragraph.

“So, what are you studying, Cas? I swear you’ve never told me,” He asks, conversationally.

“A second degree in Linguistics and Gender Studies.” Cas doesn't move from behind him, but a hand appears in his peripheral vision, palm up. “And I hope to do a pHD in the same. If I _ever_ get any studying done. My book, please.”

There's a grin in his voice, and Dean responds by holding the book out in front of him, further from Cas’ reach. Scanning the page he reads a paragraph out loudly, laughing as Cas leans over and makes a futile grab for it.

“Dean!” Cas is laughing, bent almost double over the couch with his arm outstretched. “Give!”

Then he turns and Cas is _there._ Right there next to him, their faces so close together than they share a breath, and Dean can't look away from the beautiful blue eyes that now hold him captive. Then suddenly he can, but it's only to drop his gaze by two inches to see Cas licking his lips nervously and suddenly his own mouth feels dry.What would it be like to kiss Cas? He hasn't kissed anybody for years, is utterly out of practice and would probably fuck it up, but right now it's all he can think about. Cas isn't moving away, his eyes have darkened and his mouth is _right there_. He smells incredible, looks incredible, he’s so close and feels so warm and solid right there at his side. It would be so easy to lean in and close the gap, _so_ easy…

A phone chimes out a jarring ringtone and they both jump in fright; as Cas stands up with a look of pained regret on his face Dean is certain of one thing: he wasn’t the only one about to lean in for a kiss.

“Jimmy? Yeah, I’m fine. Well, yeah you were, actually, but never mind. Uh… studying. What do you want?”

Cas turns away and chats on the phone with his brother, and by the time he ends the call it’s late in the evening and Dean is pretending to be engrossed in an episode of _Dr Sexy_ accompanied by a can of Pepsi he had liberated from the refrigerator. Cas sinks down onto the sofa at his side, an apology evident on his lips, but Dean gets there first.

“You ever see this show before?” He gestures to the TV with the remote. “If not, you’re missing out.”

“Sadly, I have,” Cas settles more into his seat, tucking a leg up underneath him. “You frequently fall asleep with it on and I’m left to suffer through it.”

“ _Suffer through?!_ Oh, buddy, this is something we gotta remedy. Strap in, it’s marathon time.”

And, unfortunately for Cas, it is. They watch four episodes back-to-back (‘but it’s so unrealistic, Dean!’), they share a bowl of popcorn and three candy bars stolen from Sam’s secret stash while the new credits roll (‘Dean, look at what he’s wearing!’), and by the end of the evening they’re both smiling and Dean is sure he’s just converted his housemate to the Church of Sexy (‘he isn’t even that hot, Dean!’). That’s when he had leaned over, whacked Cas on the arm and lost his balance. He’d ended up almost in the other man’s lap before Cas caught his shoulders and then they were too close and gazing into each other’s eyes and Dean swears he can taste his own heartbeat on his tongue. Cas’ hands are still on his shoulders, now caressing rather than gripping, and he leans helplessly into the touch. The air thickens in the gap between them and he drops his eyes to look at Cas’ mouth. Fuck, he wants to kiss him so badly. Wants to feel those lips on his, wants to know if Cas tastes as good as he smells, and the desire to deepen their budding connection is becoming almost overwhelming.

Just as he’s about to let his eyes fall closed and lean in, Cas speaks.

“You said I should have spent today with someone special. Well, it may be a cliche, but I have, Dean.” Blue eyes sparkle in the low light from the TV and Dean inhales. “You.”

Then Cas leans in, captures Dean’s lips, and they’re kissing. It’s soft, gentle, a slow exploration, yet it’s like being struck by lightning. Cas’ mouth feels incredible as it moves against his, his hands gentle on his shoulders as they hold him close, and Dean’s own fingers trail up Cas’ sides with the desire to pull him in and not let go. Their lips move together as though meant for each other and he swears he hears a whimper from one of them. He tries to deepen the kiss, brushes his tongue lightly over Cas’ lips, but that’s when the other man breaks away with shining eyes and a look of reverence on his handsome face. One hand comes up and the back of his knuckles brush Dean's cheek in a display of intimacy that almost makes him well up. He looks like he wants to kiss him again, but something seems to stop him. Instead he smiles, takes Dean’s hand in his, brings it up and presses a kiss to his knuckles then, with a sigh of what sounds like awe, says:

“Goodnight, Dean.”

The door to the bedroom closes and Dean sinks back onto the sofa, eyes bright and a smile caressing his just-kissed lips. He follows the path Cas’ mouth had taken with his finger and closes his eyes, warmth flooding through him as he remembers what it’s like to feel wanted. And to want someone. Because he wants Cas, wants to be with him and wants more than his friendship.

And, if that incredible kiss is anything to go by, Cas feels exactly the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I forget to post this?! Sorry, guys. A short and sweet conclusion coming right up...

“I love you, Dean,” Cas tells him on their third date. They're in a quaint little Italian down the road from their apartment and Cas has red-tinted lips from wine and tomato passata. Dean can't quite say it back.

“Love you,” he manages one night into the back of Cas’ head as they settle down to fall asleep. Cas freezes, then takes Dean’s hand where it's resting on his bare side and interlinks their fingers.

“I know,” he says with a smile in his voice and Dean nips the nape of his neck affectionately.

“Jerk.”

“Yeah. But you love me anyway.”

“Mmm. I guess I do.”

“Good. Because I love you, too.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“What?” Cas pushes himself up onto an elbow and turns, fixing Dean with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

“What if you're wrong,” he repeats quietly, not meeting the piercing blue eyes, ashamed of his insecurities.

“And you don't. If it's just lust. Or whatever.”

“Dean,” Cas tilts his chin and forces their eyes to meet. “I'm not wrong. And it isn't lust, I know the difference. It's you that I've fallen for, everything about you. You're brave, strong, handsome, kinda funny sometimes…”

“Shut up,” Dean smiles and blinks away tears. “You're embarrassing.”

“So?” Cas kisses him sweetly on the mouth. He's grown to love Cas’ kisses and craves them like oxygen. “I'm right.”

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but inside he's glowing. “Go to sleep, jerk.”

“Please believe me, Dean,” Cas says as he settles back down, the little spoon with Dean curled at his back. “You're worth loving.”

And it's those three words that make him choke up and they don't end up sleeping much that night.

*

There's a fine line between love and hate, and Dean walks down it every day. He both loves and hates his freedom the same way he loves and hates himself. On the good days, Cas is there with warm smiles and laughter and an endless list of things for them to do to help him build his confidence and settle back into his life. But the thing that shocks Dean the most is that on the bad days? Cas is still there. But with warm embraces, gentle touches, holding his hands or holding him back when he tries to regress towards his past behaviour. Cas never leaves. His love for Dean is unwavering and pure in its intensity, and it's both overwhelming and exactly what he needs always.

They don't have sex often. Cas is more interested in snuggling down with Dean under piles of blankets and kissing him for hours, and Dean finds he prefers the low intimacy of lying naked in Cas’ embrace, exploring his mouth with sweet kisses and tracing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, wondering if he will ever laugh enough to get lines like that too. Their first time had been wonderful, Cas moving gently on top of him and moaning softly, and Dean loved every moment of it. Cas is beautiful, and the extraordinary thing is that he seems to find Dean beautiful too, scars and all. Their bodies fit perfectly together and soon they're sleeping in Cas’ room most nights, nude beneath the covers and pressed really close.

They cuddle a lot outside of the bedroom, too. That took some getting used to on Sam’s part, and Dean overheard more than one furious fight where Sam threatened Cas with physical harm should he ever do anything to hurt Dean. Cas had coolly held his own and spouted Sam’s words back at him with a side order of reassurance that his feelings for Dean are strong and unwavering - Dean always comes out of the bedroom at that point to stare and smile and slip his hand into Cas’. Sam rolls his eyes but smiles, happy for them and happy that his brother is finding some sense of normalcy.

Sam is difficult to navigate around, but eventually Dean manages. The awkwardness falls away and their relationship progresses through difficult to relaxed and brotherly. Sam fusses him like a mother hen and seems to have no intention of stopping anytime soon, but Dean can cope with that. He would rather have a little fuss from his brother than no relationship at all. They have beer and pizza nights on the regular while Cas studies late or attends extra-credit lectures (Dean teases him mercilessly for being such a nerd) and they slowly start doing things together like heading out to watch a baseball game or to drink beer down at The Roadhouse, Sam’s local, where the bartenders are both blonde and pretty and the older one, Jess, clearly has eyes for his Sasquatch of a brother. Dean always smirks into his beer and waits, silently betting against himself on who will make the first move. A month down the line and it's Cas who eventually rolls his eyes and swipes Jess’ phone, typing in Sam’s number then heading for the pool table like nothing had happened. Dean guffaws and follows him, leaving his brother pink-cheeked and stammering with Jess grinning across the bar at him.

“Matchmaker,” Dean whispers into Cas’ hair as he racks up the balls.

Cas smirks, twists his head for a sideways kiss, then pockets four balls in one as he breaks. Dean, appalled, spends the next half hour unsuccessfully trying to beat his boyfriend at pool and only conceding when Cas promises to let him win in exchange for a kiss. Dean kisses him, and Cas still wins.

But it's always Dean who feels like the winner. He's made it, made it out in the world and he's even found someone to be with, someone who’s love is unconditional and fierce but not overpowering. Someone who accepts him, history and all, and who kisses his scars like an absolution. He still cuts when he has bad days, but Cas is there. He doesn't reprimand Dean for doing it, although he can't always hide the pain in his azure eyes as he bandages a wrist or a forearm and disposes of yet he's there to wipe the blood and hold Dean through his tremors, and it isn't long before a week goes past with no cutting. Then two. Then a month. Cas buys him an expensive leather cord bracelet to celebrate. And another at three months. At six, he takes Dean away for a weekend in the mountains and they barely leave the bedroom for lying nude together and exchanging sweet kisses and tender touches. A week later, Dean gets a job at a local garage, working three days a week, and comes into his element. Working with his hands is perfect for him, and the guys down there are really great. They never ask about his scars. And soon, Dean is able to go out for a drink with them without feeling awkward and like an outsider. Cas is thrilled for him, naturally, and Sam is cautious as always.

But Dean gets there. Soon almost a year has passed, and Sam is announcing that he's moving out. The secret little smile on Cas’ lips hints that the decision wasn't entirely his own. Soon he's living alone with his boyfriend, holding down a steady job, and his relapses into depression are few and far-between. They come, of course, but Cas is there to guide him through them. And on the days that he isn't, when Dean’s alone in the house, there's Sam on the end of the phone. Or, when Sam’s busy and it's just him alone, there's the knowledge that he has them there and they believe in him. So when he's wiping away a streak of blood, he manages not to cut too deep or to do it for too long. He manages to stop.

He manages. And that's the best he can do right now. But with Cas and Sam at his side, he knows the day will come when he doesn't need to pick up a blade ever again. And when he tells this to Cas, the smile on his boyfriend’s face is like seeing the face of an angel. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my work? Want to talk? Come message me on [Tumblr](http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com/)


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